Vanhi felt her stomach jump into her throat.
She only had one secret. She hadn’t told a soul. She’d just hacked her report card, gotten her parents’ signature, then hacked it back.
She typed:
What secret?
She didn’t have to wait. The message appeared, showing her forged report card. The fudged grade changed back and forth from a D to an A, warping like a Möbius strip. The commentary came next, short and to the point:
Cheater.
Vanhi cursed under her breath. She wrote back:
Who is this?
There was no answer.
But she knew. The bad grade was over a year ago. So why was the threat coming now? It was the Game. It had to be. Why had she said yes to playing? Why hadn’t she listened when Charlie urged her not to play? She’d never give him the satisfaction of saying he was right. It was her choice. Fuck it. It was on her, right or wrong. She’d fix it, too, just like she fixed her lousy grade. She could out-tech this lousy game.
Vanhi tried to trace back the number, but it was masked and anonymized, rerouted a dozen times over. There was no end to it. She’d never seen anything like it.
She was about to write again when it beat her to it.
Relax. I just need a favor.
Charlie cut out at lunch and went to 8710 South Wayland.
He had to know.
Come to 8710 S. Wayland
Alone—Don’t tell or it goes away.
Social Control—You earned it.
He had run into Mary in the hall, and she stopped him, looking angry. She’d already heard what happened to Kurt Ellers. She was still wearing that damn bracelet. Maybe Vanhi was right. She’d never choose Charlie. Even though she seemed to like him, he still didn’t have a chance. Social control, my ass, Charlie thought—I don’t control shit.
“What did you guys do?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Kurt. He picks on your friend, and then his phone just blows up the next day?”
“He didn’t ‘pick on’ our friend. He tortured him.”
“I agree. But you could’ve really hurt him.”
He almost said, That wasn’t the plan!—but that would have been an admission.
“We didn’t do it,” Charlie mumbled.
She studied his face. “Okay.”
He couldn’t tell if she believed him or not.
She left him there and walked out into the parking lot by herself, heading toward her car, until Tim stepped out from beside it and intercepted her. They seemed to have words, then he put a hand on the small of her back, guiding her two spots over and up the step into his giant, oversize I Am a Douchebag Truck. He closed the door for her, and it sounded hard.
Fuming, Charlie went to his shitty old car, prayed for it to start, and when it did, he went straight to fucking where the Game had told him. Let’s just see what I earned, he thought.